Search and Destroy
by Malaki Quest
Summary: A tale based in the Call Of Duty: Ghosts universe.
1. Prologue

**"KRYPTEIA"**

 _Savage_

It was a late Thursday evening when a car pulled up in front of a row of dilapidated houses, headlights off. Savage kept a keen eye on the two lookouts posted on the porch of the yellow house across the street, a few doors down. They were wearing a whole lot of green, he'd noticed. _Grovers._ It was rumored that Speed had connections with the local gangs. He probably got a little paranoid after the sand in his glass finally ran dry.

"This is it," He told eighteen year old Ronnie Mathis sitting next to him in the passenger seat.

He turned to see his student preoccupied with inspecting his new appearance in the mirror. The kid's short dreadlocks were now covered by a solid gray baseball cap, which he kept readjusting for some reason, and had a matching bandana tied over his nose and mouth. Apparently approving, he flipped the sun visor back up and opened the glove compartment. There were two items in place of his usual weapon and it immediately caught him off guard.

"Where's my nailer?" the youngster asked, checking out his new gear, recognizing the first piece of equipment immediately. Savage, his teacher of almost ten years, had donated one of his own 119 Special Buck knives for the occasion. Mathis turned it over and looked for the word. _Silence_. It was carefully carved deep into the phenolic handle.

"Gone." Savage answered. "That was just something to help you get comfortable staying in close quarters with armed targets. And to send a message, but that's not relevant."

Mathis shrugged and closed the glove box. He slid the 119 back into its genuine leather sheath and clipped it to his waist, then covered it with the tail of his black longsleeve shirt. He picked up the second item next, a much smaller nylon sheath with two metal rings poking out and used a finger to pull one, revealing a six inch, stainless steel kunai knife with bright red cord tightly wrapped around the handle. He raised his eyebrows, put it back, and leaned forward to strap the sheath to the side of his shin.

Savage turned his attention back to the two thugs on the porch, then continued.

"Besides, it'd be against the rules."

"Rules? I'm new to the concept."

"Then you might want to pay attention. You see Ronnie, back in ancient Greece, young Spartans who showed great potential throughout the first stage of their training were given the opportunity prove themselves through recruitment into a secret police force called the Krypteia. These Kryptes, as they were called, were given just a single dagger each, and it was their job to assassinate a member of the servant class who was encouraging rebellion or out past curfew."

"That's fucked up."

"It was a public service, just listen. Any breach in discretion resulted in a mission failure and mission failure resulted in a severe lashing. You will abide by these same rules, but I don't have to remind you what your failure will result in."

The youngster nodded in agreement. He had the permanent scars of his two past failures and hasn't messed up once since the last one. And that was eight years ago. Hamilton Savage was a master practitioner in the art of Apache knife fighting, and had trained countless marines back in his years as a Drill Instructor at Fort Stokes. The Apache program was still in place actually, even though his hero days were long behind him.

"What's with these then?" Mathis asked, patting his shin. "I thought those guys only got one knife."

" _You_ don't have a knife," Savage corrected him. "You're borrowing one. Those kunai are yours to keep once the job is done."

"Oh."

"Complaining? I mean, I could always use a pair for myself."

"Nah nah I'll take 'em." Mathis replied defensively. He too set his sights on the yellow house down the block with his eyes hidden beneath his curved bill.

"Bring me his pinky," Savage ordered.

The young assassin nodded affirmative, then got out of the car and snuck across the street.

* * *

 _Mathis_

Police sirens wailed on like banshees in the distance.

Mathis focused on the ground ahead as he inched his way down the sidewalk, trying not to trip over any litter as he passed a cracked driveway with a rusted Impala on cinder blocks. He spotted a broken glass bottle lying on the lawn of the next house over and moved to grab it, being extra cautious as he went over the small pebbles, then slowly made his way back to the sidewalk.

The way that Mathis saw the issue, Speed had slipped up one of the worst possible ways—owing the Mob money and failing to pay it back in time. But, to be fair, it was quite a sum. Savage explained to him that Speed had apparently been on one of the hottest streaks in the history of gambling a few weeks before, and it eventually drew to a point where another player accused him of cheating and placed a pistol on the table, demanding that he go all in and play another hand. Fearing for his money over his life, Speed played another winning hand with an unfazed grin, not yet knowing exactly who it was he had pissed off. After his men took the drug dealer out into the alley and nearly beat him to death, Daniel Botticelli, the new head of the Patel Crime Family, informed Speed that he had three weeks to get him his two million dollars.

This was the third job that his teacher had accepted from the Don, and in accordance with the sacred rule, it would be the last. The rule had been invented three years earlier, after doing a string of jobs for an employer that had mistakenly grown to think of them as on his own personal killing machines, instead of the free agents that he'd hired to take care of a specific problem. On the day they had completed their last job, Savage was ending the contract with the usual firm handshake only to instead be greeted at gunpoint. It got pretty messy after that. Since then, it's been third time's a charm, fourth time brings harm.

Mathis reached the yellow house and stopped just outside the reach of the porchlight, watching the two thugs on the stairs a few feet in front of him. He quietly crab-walked to the side of the house, where he could feel the thumping bass of the loud rap music playing inside.

"It wasn't even like he had time to say nothin' though cuz Speedy came in high off that shit and just started bombin' on his ass," the taller of them said with a lick of the cigarette paper he was rolling. "And it ain't like you gonna start fightin' back."

His friend's response was harder to make out, "I don't know why that fool let himself get jacked in the first place. I'da been strapped."

Mathis found a wooden gate that lead to the backyard and, carefully distributing pressure so as to not make it creak, used it to boost himself up and climbed up on to the low roof, carrying the bottle by the neck between two fingers. He took solace in the silence the padded soles of his shoes offered as he walked across to the front of the house and held his breath as he listened for the two on the porch below. _There you are._ They were going on about someone who apparently had a knack for stealing cars when he tossed the bottle into the air and paid it no mind as it traveled up, up, then froze for a moment before hurtling back to the earth and smashing to pieces in the middle of the street.

"Shit!" One of them cried as he hopped to his feet. He appeared to be just a few years older than Mathis, with a backwards hat and green T-shirt. The one in the hoodie wasn't as easily intimidated, and very calmly set the tray on his lap beside him on the steps. A kunai dangled from the assassin's finger by the loop while he observed their reactions from above.

The first one jogged out into the middle of the street to investigate the broken glass while the other slowly stood and walked back up the stairs, coming back down moments later with sleek black pistol in both hands. Mathis let the leaf-shaped dagger fly and the spotter in the street stiffened, dropped to his knees and face-planted. The other one saw him go down and picked up his pace, but didn't get five steps before Mathis timed his response with his own running start and leapt off of the roof like an eagle swooping down on a mouse.

The gun was knocked away without report by the surprise fifteen foot pounce and it's owner crushed to the ground. As per his extensive training, the student kept a hand pinned over his targets mouth and sunk _Silence_ deep into his heart, leaning on it with all his body weight until the helpless squirming ceased. A few minutes passed, and he stood and dragged the two bodies into the sparse foliage that grew along the perimeter of the house, where it took a few good tugs to get his kunai free from the hatted thug's thick skull. He disassembled the pistol, threw the parts into the bushes, then went up the steps and tried the front door. _Unlocked._

Mathis let himself inside and quickly closed the door behind him and knelt down, gripping the 119 upside side down in his fist, looking around, heart beating like crazy. The hollow clicking and aggressive lyrics from Xzibit's "Alcoholic" made it impossible to tell if anyone was approaching, and the sinister bass line shook the house with tremors all the way down to the foundation. There were two directions, forward and left. The path ahead had a small kitchen on one side, and beyond that some type of family room, of which could see the portion of a leather couch and back of the occupant's head. To the left of him was a single door at the end of an unlit hallway, light shining from underneath. _Don't be sloppy, check every room._

One of Savage's lessons echoed through his head as he crept down the hall on the left. _You see three enemies, assume there are six. Ten? Assume twenty. Never allow your focus to be centered unless you plan on being surrounded_. At the door, he threw a paranoid glance over his shoulder, but snapped back to the task at hand when he heard a toilet flush from the other side of the door.

When it opened a bald guy in a green sweatshirt stepped out, eyes glued the phone in his hand. They snapped left and went wide in surprise, but by then it was too late as Mathis had already come up from below and grabbed him by the back of the neck, thrusting the 119 directly into his throat right away. The action quite effectively reduced the alerted yell for help to a gurgling sputter, and Mathis looked over his shoulder once more as he walked dying man back into the bathroom and eased him down to the floor, but jolted when the guy suddenly leaned forward grabbed him by the front of the shirt and pulled him in close, staring him straight in the eyes.

The student held his gaze for over ten seconds, until he finally felt the grip on his shirt loosen and saw the glossy sheen of his victim's eyes dull over. It was an experience he knew he would remember for the rest of his life. _Don't start going soft on me_ , he thought, shaking it off. _We're way past that now_. He turned off the light and locked the door behind him as he stepped back out into the hall.

Retracing his steps back to the front door, he walked with his back along the wall until he got to the threshold, then paused and gave a quick peek. _What the..._

Whoever was sitting on the couch was no longer there. _Am I burned_ , he speculated, rounding the corner. As he passed the kitchen on his way to the living room he froze dead in tracks. Standing there in the open doorway of the refridgerator was a petite brunette in her early to mid-thirties, wearing a revealing floral patterned robe, holding a can of beer in each hand. She was staring right at him. _Don't_. _Scream_.

He recognized the woman from the stakeout photos as Beatrice Saunders, Johnny Speed's all too personal assistant. She could blow the whole mission in an instant, and he couldn't do much to take her down quietly at this range besides killing her, which was way out of the question. Savage had a strict policy regarding women and children, and unless they posed a grave and/or imminent threat, they were not to be harmed. _We're professionals_ , his psychotic teacher would say. _Not animals_.

However it soon donned on him that she either didn't care about Speed, wasn't scared, or both, making Mathis wonder if he should be. Still, he went with intimidation, slowly raising the knife up to his lips, then pointing it in the direction of the front door. She set the cans on the counter and winked playfully as she brushed past him.

The music had died down after she had left and he cursed himself for not being more careful, pausing with his back to the wall at the edge of the living room, but his whole demeanor deflated once he peeked for any hostiles. When the student craned his neck around the corner this time, he came face to face with the barrel of a snub-nosed revolver. _Fuuuck..._

Speed cocked the hammer and growled through gritted teeth. "You'd better start telling me what the fuck I want to hear."

* * *

 **Author's Note:** "Take A Stab." – Ronnie Mathis


	2. Prologue II

**"RECRUITERS"**

 _Mathis_

"You'd better start telling me what the fuck I want to hear."

 _Well, I can try._

"You Johnny Speed?" Mathis asked him, ignoring the loaded .44 Magnum a mere arm length and a half away. He could lose a decent sized chunk of his head at this range.

"Who wants to know?"

"Don Boticelli."

Seemingly confused, the drug dealer's bloodshot eyes squinted as if he'd met Mathis before, but couldn't place where, and the young assassin stole the opportunity to quickly pull his head back around the corner, nearly giving himself whiplash in the process. The gun went off like a canon maybe a millisecond after he did so, and he could have sworn he heard the bullet whiz past his ringing ears.

 _Well, so much for discretion_. He knew Speed didn't care about the noise. They had been watching him and Ms. Saunders for only a few days now and heard gunshots on a regular basis. No one in this neighborhood was calling the cops. Just wasn't gonna happen. Mathis however, was worried about something considerably worse than a run in with Teruca's Finest, and that was going a few rounds of sparring with his teacher. Not something he was looking forward to. He had to admit though, if it was him in Speed's position, he would have reacted the same and started shooting too, any noise being the last thought in his mind. The worries of the cat always differ from those of the mouse, he supposed.

Mathis yelled, "You're out past curfew Johnny!"

He snatched his hat off and flung it into the living room, then emerged with _Silence_ at the ready. Another incredibly loud bang as Speed fired at the wrong target, then one more out of jerk reaction when Mathis closed the distance and sliced the hand holding the gun. He ducked under a wild left hook and stabbed Speed in the abdomen all the way to the hilt, leaving it there while he yanked the gun away, flipped open the cylinder, and emptied the shells right in front of him, taunting.

It was a mistake. As usual, his quest for style points were about to get him killed, starting with a fist relative to brass and steel plowing mach five into his stomach, making him double over. He tried to regain himself, but caught a vicious elbow to the side of the head and saw stars and the floor came up to meet him.

He was flat on his back when he forced his eyes open a few seconds later and saw Speed take the knife out of his gut like something out of a horror film and slam it into the wall, then crack his neck and knuckles, and finally turn to face the person responsible, his famous grin growing wide. Mathis involuntarily gulped down air.

Speed hoisted him up by the shoulders, head butted him, and threw him over the couch. _Wait, wait, wait!_ He thought just before crashing through an oakwood coffee table in the middle of the room.

"Unh..." Ronnie groaned, crawling out of the table halves. _OK. Now I'm pissed._ He retrieved his kunai knives and took one in each hand, grabbed his hat that he'd landed by and put it back on his head, and jumped up in a boxing stance, bouncing from foot to foot.

Speed had been coming around the far side side of the couch, but had stopped and was now leaning on it for support, his other hand nursing his flowing stab wound.

"Gettin' tired bitch?" Ronnie asked.

That's when they heard it. Coming from the front of the house, a rapid thumping, like a bowling ball rolling down a set of stairs.

The following scene was an incomprehensible blur. One second, Speed was turning around to see what the noise was, the next, a giant black figure flew into frame and knocked him down. The student stood staring in utter stupefaction at the biggest human being he had ever seen, who was yelling down at Speed, down for the count, forehead split open and blood leaking profusely, starting to pool.

"I do dis! Me!"

He was a mammoth, easily over seven feet tall. It was then that Mathis noticed the enormous dripping sledgehammer in his hands.

Someone else entered the room behind him, saying, "Yeah, calm your big ass down. You better not have killed our guy."

A white guy with a thin mustache and lone vertical stripe for a beard walked in wearing a two-tone red and blue beanie and a plain white T-shirt. He had on these two utility sashes crisscrossing over his chest, one carrying a variety of colored canisters, the other lined with a bunch of sage colored eggs Mathis guessed were grenades. The newcomer was also holding a crazy looking assault rifle that appeared to be two guns in one, and he pointed this monstrosity straight at Mathis as soon as he saw him.

"Damnit." He cursed, clearly dissapointed, before plucking a handheld radio from somewhere behind his back. It spoke up before he had a chance to.

"Yo, dudes! Problem. That Houdini kid ain't here. I'm thi-"

"We've got the kid." The guy interrupted, sounding a little panicked. "The targets are swapped, I repeat you are out there with Ham!"

The student was still standing there wielding his daggers like Muhammad Ali, and casually looked over to the torchiere floor lamp in the corner of the room, then around to each of the massive speakers in Speed's ridiculous surround sound system. _Maybe if I..._

Sharp finger snapping brought his attention back. The one with the skull cap waved at him and pointed to the ground, saying, "Hey you, put the knives down. Moose, handle this. Blaze, come in. What's your status?"

While that one kept trying to reach the guy on the radio, his towering associate stepped forth, resting the hammer on one shoulder with the other hand held out flat like a bully demanding lunch money. "Alright kid, hand 'em over. Don't make this hard."

Though they couldn't see it, Mathis was wearing the trademark grin of his fallen adversary.

* * *

 _Savage_

"Bring me his pinky."

His dutiful student nodded at his request and got out of the car. As he crept across the street, Savage was reminded of ten years earlier to when he had first met the angry little tyke.

It was the sixth assignment, or the fifth, it was hard to remember—the greiving process had been an long unhealthy trance of sloppy killings and binge drinking up to this point. The job had come from some private investigation agency calling themselves FatherZeus. The name sounded stupid but the money was good and the job seemed easier. They hired him to take care of some hotshot detective who had been snooping around one of their clients' operations and had gotten ahold of some information a few levels above his paygrade. During his time in the Marine Corps, Savage had singlehandedly brought down two entire terrost regimes on deep cover missions, and prevented numerous wars from breaking out all across the world. One guy? This would be a cake walk.

It was meant to look like a break in. It would have gone smoothly too, if the detective's equally nosy partner hadn't shown up out of nowhere and caught him in the act. Still, two, one, it didn't make a difference. He killed the target, along with a couple of his own guys to cover a trail, and was about to leave the unconsious hero partner to bleed out when a kid, maybe eight years old, wandered into the slaughterhouse of a living room and saw Savage huddled over one of his henchmen.

An idea had crept into the knife expert's head as he recalled the fateful meeting, and opened the middle console and dug through the contents, pulling out a mouthless, maroon colored ski mask with two perfect circles for eyes. _Time to suit up_. The Don had told him that Speed was overly edgy and might try to bolt, so Savage decided to wait in the backseat of his car for him, just in case.

He pulled out a foot long piece of piano wire with small wooden handles fastened to either end and dropped it into his pocket, then pulled out the pièce de résistance, his old worn leather aviator's cap he'd kept from a fallen friend in the Air Force. He carefully put it on in the mirror, then closed the compartment and looked down the road. Mathis was dragging the bodies of the two spotters off to the side of the house, then stopped, struggling with one of them. Savage waited for the young assassin to dissapear inside the house before he got out of the car.

As the former Marine Corps First Lieutenant made his way over to Johnny Speed's green Toyota, he recalled stooping down in front of a teary-eyed Ronnie Mathis all those years ago, watching the kid's tiny hands ball up into little fists at the sight of his dead father. He remembered the spiel he'd given he youngster about what had happened. _My name is Hamilton Savage. I worked with your father, son. I—I was too late to save him, but you have my word I will make sure the person behind this will pay. Better yet, I will make sure that one day, YOU will get the person responsible for this._ Tugging at the child's emotions with a promise of redemption, Savage persuaded him to become his student in the art of knife combat. One day, he would tell him the truth behind his father's death, but that was in time to come. First the kid had to prove his worth.

In retrospect, maybe it was just a way to redirect his own negative energy into something "positive". He hadn't always been like this. Anna had always kept him on the straight and narrow, but when life took her away, despite all of their best efforts, well, he thought it only fair to take something away from life. And he was damned good at it.

He suddenly got an unsettling feeling and instincts told him to take cover. Listening, he hid behind an old lowrider in a nearby driveway, unsheathing _Rage_ from his left shoulder. Usually _Silence_ was his go-to, but he'd lent it to Ronnie, so this would have to do. It was okay. He'd had a lot of pent up anger from dealing with this sketchy mob boss as it is, so it seemed fitting that whoever was trying to get the drop on them should feel this piece of steel over the others.

A long while passed before he heard anything, but his patience paid off. From his perch in the driveway, he could see three figures, clearly armed, coming up the road. They passed underneath a street lamp, revealing their appearances for only a passing moment. There were two guys in matching black and red combat uniforms, carrying submachine guns, following a third, who had on all black and some type of inferno style balaclava.

 _A hit squad._

* * *

 _Mathis_

"Don't make this hard." The one called Moose had said in a deep voice. Mathis wasn't even listening. He had his ears perked to the radio that the one with the skull cap was holding. The response from the guy on the other end could be heard in the background.

"Say again, didn't copy your last."

The transmission cut off into static and the demand for the student's obedience came again. Putting the giant at ease, Mathis put both hands in visibly in the air, then slowly, methodically, knelt down and put the knives in their sheath. He didn't want them getting confiscated by some stranger; he just got them and was growing rather fond of his new toys.

He stood back up with his hands in plain sight and, under the wary eyes of his captors, pulled the knife from the wall. He was surprised to see that he was no longer at gunpoint, but figured if they thought he was gonna be threat, they would be able to handle it. They were right in their thinking if this was the case. Ronnie knew he couldn't take them both on, especially after his fight with Speed. He wasn't Hamilton.

He kept the knife in plain sight as walked over to Speed's body, careful not to make any sudden movements and picked up the dealer's left hand. _Wrong one._

"What are you doin' over there?" The heavily-armed gunman inquired.

Mathis picked up the right hand and looked at the shiny ring on the little finger. Twenty four carat gold, with the embossed initials JS. _Bingo._ He angled the Buck knife at the base of the finger, just above the knuckle.

"If I'm lucky," The student answered without looking up, "This will be my get-out-of-jail free card."

The bone gave with a horrific crunch.

* * *

 _Savage_

Hidden in shadows of the broken down impala, Savage watched the trio walk straight to his car in a tight triangle formation, weapons trained on the vehicle. When they got close, the one in the hellfire mask held up a fist and moved forward while the others stayed put.

Finding no one in or under the car, he panned around one last time, then continued down the road, motioning for his teammates to follow. Savage managed to sneak undetected to a parked car at the curb once they passed, then equipped the 119 Special entitled _Skill_ from his right shoulder and began his furtive pursuit.

The hit squad's team leader pulled out a radio and said, "Yo dudes! Problem. That Houdini kid ain't here."

 _What the hell do they want with Ronnie?_ Savage pondered following a few feet behind. _How many more of them are there?_ The radio started say something, but it was hard to hear over the two in the back speaking amognst themselves in Spanish. Chatter or not, Savage definitely heard his name.

He froze when the leader half-turned and hissed at his cohorts to be quiet, then spoke back into the radio, "Say again? Didn't copy your last."

The Apache Warrior gave them no chance. He dashed forward with his arms wide like an airplane and brought them together in an atomic clap, _Skill_ and _Rage_ impaling the necks of left and right rear guards respectively, knocking their heads into eachother. The sound of their silenced Veprs stuttering was like hail bouncing off a tin shed as they went down, gaining the attention of the man in the hellfire mask.

He wheeled around holding two suppressed pistols akimbo and started blasting, and Savage used his victims as human shields as he pushed forward, then dove over them into a forward roll. The muzzle flashes in the dead of night had a strobe light effect as he unstobbably approached, dodging and batting at his opponent. A few bullets struck him in the arms and upper torso of his flak jacket. Then the glorious inevitability. One of the guns clicked, empty, and Savage dropped down, grabbed _Agony_ and _Defeat,_ stood up, and moved in for the kill.

The other pistol was aimed forward, but Savage was quick enough to get inside and knock his enemy's arm away, silenced bullets going off like pellets. He went to work slashing at the man's face and neck, then twirled the blades around and stabbed downward into the pressure points on both shoulders, rendering the arms useless.

The man in the hellfire mask howled in pain, taking a few steps back and falling to one knee. Ham Savage had his head cocked to the side as he walked up to his defeated foe.

"W-Wait... You don't understand." The poor guy wimpered, shuddering, pleading. "We're a re- aah!"

Savage ripped the knives out and wiped them on his enemy's stupid inferno mask and pushed him over, resheathing _Agony_. Time for that was over. He knelt down with a knee on Mr. Fireguy's chest, positioning _Defeat_ in the center of his forehead like a railroad spike. He raised his fist up high.

"Please, just listen. We're not here to kill you," Blaze tried one last time. "We're just a recruitment squad."

Ham didn't care. He didn't like to be snuck up on.

"And your point is..." Savage replied, waiting for an answer. When all he got was a stunned silence, he hammered the knife in with one swift blow.

"Oh, I see. It's in your head."

* * *

 **AN: "** Blademaster." – Ham Savage


	3. Prologue III

" **WHODUNNIT"**

 _Commissioner Delfert_

It was soft at first. He was standing up on the ledge of a twelfth floor stone balcony in some luxury highrise, bare toes dangling over the edge, when he heard the soft, almost inaudible tune playing from a nearby source he couldn't pinpoint. It was vaguely familiar, but the fact that it was right at the tip of his tongue made it all the more annoying.

Delfert stared down the building's glass facade to the street below. The people really did look like ants from up here, the vehicles resembling little different colored beetles. The wind gently lapped at his face, seagulls soared gracefully nearby, inviting him. He felt free, untouchable.

It was perfect up here, walking the thin line between a short hop down to go back inside and a blissful freefall ending in a horrific splat. He had total control over fate. But that sound was killing him and he hadn't the slightest clue where it was coming from, now so loud that it had become an overpowering disruption to the moment's tranquility.

About half a minute passed before it hit him; he recognized this sound, it was his phone, ringing right behind him on a glass table. He hadn't remembered bringing it out with him.

 _Enough of this lunacy_ , Delfert thought as he turned to hop down. The song increased in volume more and more until he thought it was coming from inside his own head. So loud it started to hurt. He clasped his hands over his ears and, forgetting that he was on the brink of death, lost his footing.

He leaned forward in a last minute attempt to avert his fall back onto the balcony and was able to reach out and grab the ledge with his fingers, but the momentum slammed him against the outer wall hard enough to knock him completely off. His blood ran cold as he plummeted, flailing like a fish out of water as fell, fruitlessly yelling over the melody reaching earpericing levels just before he hit the ground.

Eddie Delfert awoke with a jolt, all sweaty and instantly alert. His wife, Nancy, stirred beside him. His phone was on the nightstand to his left, still churning out Fur Elise like a music box from hell. He quickly scooped it up and swiped the green phone icon to the right, too tired to check the caller's ID.

"This had better be good." He said, rubbing some more life into his eyes.

"Oh it is," a female's strident voice answered, trying so speak up over some sort of commotion in the background. He jerked his head away from the phone due to it being so close to his ear.

 _Becker,_ the Commissioner thought, identifying the culprit. He glanced at the time display in the corner. It read 5:22. There must have been a break in the case.

She kept it simple and to the point. Always subtle. Always Becker.

"An ERP unit called it in after responding to gunfire in Oakville late last night. It's our guy. We found Speed and seven others massacred in some sort of gang hit. Three of the guys were wearing some sort of army gear, real top of the line stuff."

 _Good morning Eddie._ His mind was already racing, picking up the puzzle pieces where he had last left off a little over six hours earlier. He knew that there was more; he could hear the anticipation in her voice. He waited.

"I hope you're still lying down Commissioner," She warned. "This next part is the money. All of the victims have stab wounds from some kind of large blade, all except the female victim who received a single gunshot to the head."

"The Maniac's M.O." Delfert said absently to himself, driving the point home. The Maniac Killer never mutilated women or children, only his adult male victims. If she saw him, he may have taken her down on general principle, so as to not leave any witnesses behind, but it would have been quick.

Becker confirmed his assessment when she said, "Exactly. All the guys got it pretty bad, but the girl's seems calculated, proffessional. Look I gotta go, they need me over here but I just thought you should know. Sorry about the rude awakening."

"No, no, you made the right move. Keep me updated, Detective."

"Will do."

The line went click and he tossed back the covers and sat on the edge of the bed for a moment. He hadn't even gotten up to take a morning's piss and already found himself taking a painful stroll down memory lane.

 _ **Years ago…**_

Special Agent In Charge Eddie Delfert was zooming through the urban neighborhood at no less than forty miles an hour, responding a frantic phone call from his partner about some kind of home invasion in progress.

Delfert had just gone to bed when he got the call but managed to fly out of the house and have the car in drive by the time he got off the phone. He just hoped he wasn't too late. When Eddie finally arrived at the Mathis residence a glacial three minutes and some odd seconds later, there was a black Hummer H2 parked on the lawn, back doors wide open. The front door to the house was open as well.

After making his presence known and calling out to his partner a few times to no avail, he slowly entered the house, his standard issue P226 service pistol in his right hand, left gripping his flashlight like an icepick, aiming it forward, arms crossed at the wrists. He had already radioed for backup on the way here, but he had to get in their make sure the remainder of his friend's family was okay. Simon's fiance Christa passed away giving birth to their son, and ever since then he's been taking care of the kid on his own.

All the lights were off inside. Not a good sign. Just through the doorway was a shadowy lump on the floor, which he shined at gunpoint. A man of about thirty who he'd never seen before was lying in a dark puddle with an arm outstretched, a handgun just beyond his reach. _One of the intruders_ , Delfert surmised. _Monty musta got him_. He kicked the gun away as he stepped over the scum and moved further inside.

He knew that in his free time, Simon had been investigating the personal affairs of Adrian Gallegos, the chairman and co-founder of FatherZeus Investigations, a private company designed to protect the interests of upper crust of Teruca City, the powerful and the wealthy. When he did manage to compile enough evidence to be notable, Commissioner Bower ordered him to turn over what he had and concentrate his efforts the case that he was assigned. Simon complied on both accounts, but the boss's diversion only fueled his fire to bring down Gallegos.

Just before he dropped Eddie off at home, Simon was going on about the whole thing being a sham, a front for something way bigger than it was, he just didn't know exactly what, or how far their influence reached. Delfert replied by explaining that nothing good would come from going after Gallegos, that it made as much sense as dogs chasing tanks that would eventually grow tired of the barking. He thought he had gotten his point of view through to him, but Simon called him a coward, shocked at Delfert's supposed lack empathy on the topic. The worst part was that it stung, mainly because it seemed like the truth. But now this was happening.

Eddie caught movement out of his peripheral vision and traced it to the mouth of the hallway leading to the bedrooms. It was Simon. He had his hands raised, and the flash of silver at his neck glinted off the light. Someone was behind him, holding him hostage with a huge blade and staring with his head at an angle. He had on a red mask and some kind of airplane hat.

"Let him go." Agent Delfert ordered.

A single heartbeat thumped by. _Time's up, asshole_. He squeezed off a shot that barely grazed the suspect's head. He had acted too soon. He should have tried to reason with him, but he had been reckless, and his decision would come back to haunt him.

The suspect's hand moved so fast it didn't really seem to move at all. A wide red smile formed on Simon's neck before he was shoved forward onto the floor, his hands weakly grasping at the wound in a futile attempt to stop the bleeding.

Delfert fired two shots at his partner's assailant, who had now turned the knife on him. Both hit their target. Both failed to stop him. The distance the maniac covered during the assault was unbelievable. Bullets seemed to have no effect on him. By the time the agent squeezed the trigger for shot number three, he was struggling with the attacker to maintain control of his own gun. Delfert released his grip on the weapon and moved to jab him in the face with the flashlight but was too slow for his opponent and missed. He was rewarded with a giant piece of steel to his rib cage.

He stopped immediately. The fight was over and he knew it. He hung onto his attacker for support as he felt his legs give out, and to his surprise, it was allowed. The bastard actually leaned in close and whispered, "Take my advice. Like your partner did."

Then he sidestepped, dropping SAIC Delfert on the floor, leaving the knife. He reached down and took the fallen gun and flashlight instead.

"Fair trade." The faceless man declared.

A few seconds ticked by like centuries as Delfert found himself staring into deep nothingness, passing out from some time after that, awaking to the news that Simon didn't make it, and that little Ronnie was missing. His quest for the killer began that day.

A few months down the line, the trail had gone colder than the core of an iceball, and former Special Agent In Charge Eddie Delfert was drifting further and further beyond on the frayed edges of sanity. He had gone through any and all sources looking for a lead, all the way down to a woman claiming to have seen the boy in a psychic vision. In all his efforts, Delfert had become a recluse, unsuccessfully trying to tie together murder cases that resulted from sharp force injuries inflicted on the victims. He simply could not find a pattern. The Maniac Killer was a ghost.

Eventually he came to a point where he had to make a choice. He woke up one day in state of mental awareness, viewing his predicament from an outside perspective. He couldn't let that bastard win. He had to rebuild.

From then on, Delfert swore on the blood of his fallen partner that he would catch the killer and make him pay, he just needed a little time to return to the world. Once he returned to work, he spent the next four years reviving his relationship with Nancy, and clawing his way to the top of a corrupt police force.

When he replaced Bowers as Commissioner, he officially reopened the Mathis cases and formed task forces out of groups of the brightest young investigators he could find, specifically charging them with finding the Maniac Killer. Not surprisingly, their efforts yielded more than the original teams, a.k.a the couple of ragtag groups Bowers had thrown together.

 _ **Present…**_

Delfert traced the jagged knife scar with a finger, thinking about the aftermath. The only thing worse than Simon's death was Ronnie's disappearance and Delfert felt inescapably responsible for both. It's something he's learned to cope with in his daily life. Like a fifty pound weight vest he puts on every morning when he wakes up. Thing is, he'd been wearing it so long it no longer seemed heavy, especially not in light of this new evidence.

He was back on the Maniac's trail, and the tracks were fresh. _We're coming for you, you son of a bitch. And when we catch you? I'm gonna make you smile, nice and wide._ The growing anticipation fueled him out of bed with a newfound energy that rivaled espresso. He raised his hands level with his shoulders, palms faced outwards, and leaned forward until he fell into the pushup position and cranked out the usual thirty.

He stood back up and stretched out all five feet and eleven inches of his lanky frame, and a scalding hot shower later, threw on some jeans, shoes, and a T-shirt, then stood facing the mirror has he buttoned down his plaid long sleeve dress shirt and tied his matching solid brown tie.

He knelt down and pulled the gun case marked E out from underneath the bed. There were two, the other marked with an N for his wife. Inside of hers was an assortment of about a dozen handguns that he trained her to use. Commissioner Delfert wasn't taking any chances. Ever since his encounter with the Maniac Killer, safety was constantly the number one priority. He even had an intricate system of hidden cameras installed around the house that linked back to his phone, notifying him of an intrusion in a matter of seconds.

His old partner's death had really put in perspective for him, that no matter how safe you think you may be, in today's day and age, you just weren't. He shuffled into a black leather trench coat and dropped his keys into one of the pockets, picked up his hard plastic gun case and walked down the hall to the front of the house, making a pit stop at his home office.

During the detour, he pulled all files he had from both the Mathis disappearance and homicide cases and slid them into his a leather briefcase, which he tucked under his occupied arm before he left. With his free hand he locked the front door on his way out and unlocked the door to his awaiting Crown Victoria. _We're gonna get this bastard_ _Monty_ , Delfert thought optimistically. _I'll send you some company_.

A minute or so later, the Teruca City Police Commissioner pulled away from the curb, unknowingly under the watchful eyes of Ham Savage and the Patriot.

* * *

 **AN:** "I put my Gun in a Box."– Commissioner Delfert


	4. Act 1: The Estate

**"GAME PLAN"**

 _Gallegos_

They say that once you reach certain depths of the sea, the water pressure is strong enough to crush a fifty gallon steel oil drum like an aluminum can. Adrian Gallegos felt like the drum as he sat in his tenth floor office at FatherZeus headquarters, stressed at the lingering doubt that he may not be able to effectively carry out what was expected of him by his superiors. Even though ten plus years worth of preparation had gone into this operation, he now felt hopelessly clueless, wondering what the hell he was doing here.

The decorated Bolivian Army Captain had come to the States after his honorable discharge fifteen years prior and found himself unable to accustom to the retired life at only thirty years of age. Using his experience and resources to his advantage, he offered his services as an inexpensive private investigator solving petty crimes, affordable to the single mother whose home was ransacked, the worker who was mugged on his way home from work. The crimes he felt mattered. Gallegos could still remember and picture the cheesy advertisement he had in the _Teruca Tribune_. After a while his success in the neighborhoods made him both a hero and a target. People called him a bloodhound. The cops called him a nuisance, and reluctantly for help on occasion whenever a major case started to go cold.

Years later, he had moved on up from his storefront location to a corporate building on the wealthier side of town. He now staffed over nine thousand workers at FatherZeus HQ, and with his highly trained Tactical Apprehension Division, his company was a recognized entity all over the world, among organizations like MI5, KGB, and the CIA.

He was on vacation in his homeland when he received a surprise visit from his former platoon commander, General Diego Almagro. Almagro explained to Gallegos his plan to extend the Federation's reach overseas into the caribbean islands during the chaos from the global energy crisis, starting with Jamaica. The world's powers would be too concerned with maintaining economic stability in their own individual nations to intervene if the Federation decided on a hostile takeover. The poorer nation's cries for help would fall upon deaf ears.

Almagro went on to say that while the Federation wasn't yet ready, in time, they would take the U.S. When that time came, however, they would need people on the inside in order to facilitate a full scale invasion. Long story short, Gallegos returned to the States with new purpose.

A buzzing sound tore him from his thoughts and back into the present, where he was sitting there like a pathetic sack at his desk resting his head in his hands, glasses off, massaging the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger. Recognizing his sad state for what it was, he stood up and began to pace, trying to pull himself the hell together.

His secretary's voice came in over the buzzer, "Sir, Lieutenant Santos is here to see you."

Roman Santos was currently the head of the TAD. The former Cartel soldier turned private and eventually lieutenant of the Armed Forces of Bolivia was personally picked from thousands by the late General Almagro to lead the ground assault in Teruca when the Federation finally invaded the United States. He was quite possibly the only one who Gallegos could depend on as a replacement for Blaze on such short notice.

Something had gone wrong on the last recruiting operation, a hiccup of some sort that left their latest recruit and two TAD personnel dead, and scanning the network for another demolition expert and bringing them in just wouldn't fit into the strict time table. This thing was happening today, whether they were ready or not.

Gallegos held down a button on the buzzer and said, "Go ahead and send him up, Tessa."

He then walked over to the crystal clear glass window that took up the whole back wall and stood there. The sun was shining for all it was worth, and the contrail of a jet long since gone left a dissipating mark on the otherwise clear blue sky. He wanted to enjoy this view while he still could. One way or another, he knew, it would all be over in a matter of hours. He let his eyes wander across the valley of low stucco houses and tall palm trees. Following a winding path that snaked up through Westridge Hills, could see the overly ostentatious mansions that stood proudly over Teruca City like lion statues in front of a library.

"Sir."

Gallegos turned and saw Santos standing in the doorway. He was tall and built like a bull, with a thick neck, broad shoulders, and burly arms. His hands were clasped together behind his back, and a pair of sunglasses were resting on his shaved head. He had on a simple black tee, red ACUs, and boots, and carried his usual no-nonsense demeanor. The guy never seemed to smile.

Adrian waved a hand towards the chairs across from his desk as he took his seat.

"First," He began in fluent Spanish once Roman sat down, "I want to congratulate you and your team on nabbing Mojean. Low profile, no casualties, that's what I expect from my operatives.

"Unfortunately, the hired help doesn't seem to have gotten the memo. There was some slip up, some... miscommunication with the Distraction Team. Blaze and the two agents I asked to borrow from you ended up getting killed and now there's DEA and Homicide cops all over the damned thing. It's a mess."

Gallegos slid open a desk drawer and came up with a key, the same kind used for reservations in weapon lockup. He closed the drawer and held the key up for him to see, then said, "I need you to take his place on the team."

Santos sat there for a moment, processing all the information. That was Santos; half man, half machine. When he finally spoke, the first thing out of his mouth was, "On one condition."

On principal, he didn't really have to grant him anything. But there was no sense in being unreasonable.

"Name it."

"If I'm gonna be out in the field with these guys, any number of things can go wrong and I'd have to depend on people I'm not so sure won't try and kill me themselves or leave me behind. I need to have my own personal recon team always nearby, ready to get me out of tough situations or carry out orders. They are not an extension of your Distraction Team. They report only to me."

Gallegos thought about this. He understood where Santos was coming from, but it was more that he didn't care about anything but the team being back to full capacity. A little extra protection?

"Done." He said, handing him the key.

He checked his wristwatch and stood up, "I'm scheduled to brief the team in a few minutes. The others should already be assembled in the war room. Walk with me."

The two men left the office and walked down the hall to the elevators. After calling the elevator car and stepping inside, Gallegos pulled a round key out of his pocket and unlocked a cover to a set of buttons hidden just below the first. He hit the second to last button, then closed the cover back and locked it shut. The elevator descended for a short while past the ground floor. The silence in the elevator started to get to him after a few moments of descent, and he turned and said, "I'm sorry about Gomez and Salazar. They were two of our best."

Santos nodded his head in acknowledgement, then replied, "Don't let it bother you too much, boss. A lot more of us are gonna die before the day's through. Let's just make sure it isn't for nothing."

Sub level one held a massive garage full of TAD official vehicles, ranging from motorcycles to sedans to SUVs, and even a couple of helicopters. They were headed half a mile underground to sub level two, where the TAD barracks and training facilities were housed just above a solid steel research bunker on sub level three. The elevator doors opened and they stepped out into what could initially be perceived as an underground army base. Two tall, dormitory-like buildings that stretched from the floor to the ceiling took up the entire western half. On the right were several combat simulation training stations, complete with cardboard enemies that pop out from around corners and windows and narrow corridors. Hundreds of black and red clad Federation soldiers, a front for the Tactical Apprehension Division, were milling around, performing different tasks, moving with purpose.

The war room was off to one side of the armory, and Gallegos had been right, every one was already there, waiting. The room was set up with a few chairs facing a whiteboard with dry eraser markers, resembling a small classroom with a bunch of cold blooded murderers for students. The Patriot was standing against the back wall with a toothpick in his mouth, talking about something with Savage that required hand gestures to provide proper detail. Savage was the only one wearing his mask and hat, but seeing as how he had already killed one of them for close to no reason, no one was bothering him about it. In front of him was his student, Mathis, who was sitting in one of the chairs, writing something on one of his little red knives with a Sharpie. The kid was actually the son of a detective they had ordered him to kill years before. Small world. Moose and the recruit that Santos's team captured were sitting in the other two chairs, having a conversation with a little less vibrancy than their teammates. The recruit was a tech expert named Richard Mojean, but the network had him listed as Specs. He was one of the most dangerous hackers in the world, formerly employed by the NSA before trying to return to the normal life. They all looked up as Gallegos and Santos walked into the room.

"Alright people," Gallegos began, switching over to English. "Today is the day. But I want to see some coordination out there. If things go the way they should, we will all be back here tomorrow as rich men with conquered land and a twelve pack of beer."

After the whoops and cheers had died down a bit, Gallegos raised an arm at the emotionless soldier standing at ease to his left, "Lieutenant Santos here is going to be filling in for Blaze. I'm going to have him give the rundown on what we have set up for today. Santos?"

Santos thanked him and walked up to the whiteboard, then said, "Before we can launch a full scale invasion, we need to draw out and distract the U.S. Military until the Space Team has confirmed control of OLYMPUS. This whole thing depends on taking OLYMPUS, so we're going to make some noise on our end to buy them some time. We're going to split into teams of three, designated Red and Gold, in order to establish a stronghold and cripple Teruca's defenses."

"What are the teams?" Specs asked.

"Moose, Mathis, and I are on Gold Team. We'll be tasked with capturing and fortifying one of the Westridge estates so that our stronghold has the high ground. By the time this becomes a reality, it's more than likely that we'll have the full undivided attention of the Teruca City Police Department. It will be at this time that I contact Gallegos, and he will give Red Team the greenlight to initiate phase two."

Santos uncapped the marker and drew a diagram of the only road leading up into Westridge Hills, which had an intersection just before the incline. In the diagram, he had drawn cars blocking off the intersection, "We're going to have units posted here, here, and here. We're also going to form a perimeter around the estate in question so that if the first barrier is broken, we have a second to ensure the police won't interrupt the team inside."

Erasing the first image, he then drew some sort of jumbo jet hovering over a tall building marked TCPD. "Patriot, seeing as how the Special Weapons And Tactics division is on the top floor your team is going to be airdropped onto the police station in order to hit them first, then work your way to the ground floor where we'll have units ready to escort you to our location. From here we hold out until we get confirmation from Space Team."

Mathis had a hand raised. When acknowledged, he hypothesized, "Say we never get confirmation. If the Space Team fails, then what?"

A few heads were nodding in agreement, wondering the same thing. Santos kept it honest. "If we don't take control of the OLYMPUS space station, the General will not send in reinforcements. We will be left stranded out here and at that point, it's every man for themselves. Our offfshore financier will wire the money to each of your accounts in the morning, so all you have to do is survive until then. It would just be considerably easier if we had OLYMPUS."

Santos had finished and there were no more questions, so Gallegos started to wrap things up, eager to get things rolling. "Okay everyone, you know what I expect from you out there today. Teamwork and coordination. I want to make sure all of us live long enough to have that beer. Stay sharp out there. Now go suit up. It's time."

* * *

 **AN:** "Whooooooooo!" – Blaze


End file.
